Beyond the Aid of Light
by Tamashi.no.Koe
Summary: // Rejected, Resentful Diva X Mysterious, Secretive Girl X Bitter Little Brother // Just when Yuuta thought he was getting along pretty well with her...Atobe came back.
1. Prologue

**BEYOND THE AID OF LIGHT**

* * *

_Prologue_

* * *

"Check all hospitals and police stations in the immediate area. Report back to Ore-sama whether you find anything or not." Tersely cutting the line, Atobe Keigo snapped his sleek silver cell phone shut, leaned back in his chair and said no more.

Around him, the regulars of the Hyotei Tennis Team sat or stood, all looking on soberly. Silence reigned in the team's locker room; there was no casual chatter, or even many movements as seven boys studied their captain with a general sense of edginess. Even some, such as Muhaki Gakuto and Wakashi Hiyoshi, who didn't appreciate the gravity of the situation as Atobe did, nevertheless managed to maintain at least the appearance of solemnity.

It was as though Atobe's tensely rigid demeanor had struck them all dumb. The lazy, self-assured smirk they had all grown used to was gone, replaced by a hard straight line of thin lips. His chin had lost its cocky upward tilt; he now sat with his head slightly bowed. Yet his eyes stared on ahead, white flashing beneath the black, narrowed but not narrowed, alert but stormy. His face itself appeared thinner, haughty cheekbones and pointed nose acutely defined, sharper.

He was worried, Oshitari Yuushi observed, noting the lack of poised elegance in Atobe's posture, and how he clutched his phone so tightly in one fist that his hand shook. He wasn't panicking--Atobe never _panicked_--but definitely worried. "Oi, Atobe, don't you think you're overreacting a little?" Oshitari finally ventured to ask, careful to keep his tone serious and his expression free of its custom mockery.

The strung up diva gave him a severe look which the team normally associated with exceptionally bad performance in tennis matches. "Ore-sama is merely taking no chances and covering all possibilities. You would do well to keep in mind that the girl has ties with both local gangs. Gangsters have a tendency to get injured or arrested, as you might have noticed by now."

_Such a harsh tone_. Atobe clearly wasn't taking things lightly. "She left both gangs over a year ago," the tensai pointed out reasonably.

"Which neither is happy about," Atobe growled impatiently. "Who is to say they wouldn't do her any harm in a fit of temper, or for revenge?"

"Nobody," Oshitari said smoothly. "I understand why you might be concerned, but I don't think you should jump to conclusions just because she skipped one day--one morning, to be exact--of school. Maybe some family matters came up?"

The Hyotei captain turned thunderous eyes on his teammate. "If one day you're attacked on the street and are dying of your many bleeding wounds," he said in a voice that told Oshitari it was time to shut up, "please do not blame Ore-sama for wrongly assuming that your absence meant you were attending to _family matters_."

No one else said anything after that. Their lunch period passed in painfully drawn out minutes of tension and anxiety. None of them left the room despite growing hunger, among other needs. During this time, everyone came up with at least half a dozen reasons why Atobe's friend might have suddenly gone missing, but very sensibly did not dare voice them out. As the beginning of afternoon classes approached, a phone call came in, reporting that there were no patients or detainees matching her name or description. They originally thought that Atobe would be able to relax a little on receiving that news, but were sadly disappointed. "It might mean she hasn't been able to call for help, or that no one else has done it for her."

Finally, five minutes from the bell, Ohtori Choutaro mustered up the courage to speak. "Ano…her classmate mentioned that the teacher didn't call her name today at morning register, right?" He watched his captain and senpai nervously, going on only when he was sure Atobe wasn't about to explode or punch him in the gut for making unwanted noise. "I think…" Hesitating, he gulped.

"What, Choutaro?" Atobe snapped. "Just say it."

"Hai!" the timid Second Year hastened to comply. "I only wanted to suggest if…maybe we should check the at the school office about…enrollment?"

Atobe's head whipped around faster than it took a tennis ball to cross a court after being hit with a Scud Serve. "What exactly gave you the idea that she would simply take herself out of school without informing anyone, even Ore-sama?" he demanded, tone broaching on anger. Choutaro stiffened, preparing to apologize for giving offence, but was spared the need to do so as Atobe pushed off from his chair and charged out of the room, the rest of the team in tow.

To everyone's surprise, he actually headed up to the office and demanded to be allowed to inquire on a certain student's status in Hyotei. Snapping out a name he waited impatiently as the unnerved receptionist hurriedly logged on to her computer and searched for the information he wanted.

A minute later she frowned, bit her lip and peeked up at him apologetically. "I'm afraid there are no records of this person that suggest she's part of the current student body," she said, her voice trailing away as she saw that Atobe's face grew darker with every word.

"Ore-sama wants to see the lists of all Second Year classes," he practically snarled, ripping the lists from the receptionist's hand once they were within reach. Furious eyes traveled like black fighter jets down the first page, then the next as his lithe fingers tore pieces of paper away from the pile he had confirmed that none of them showed the name he was looking for.

Finally, the team held its breath as he reached the last sheet. This one he spent whole minutes on, his gaze sweeping up and down, again and again, scrutinizing each line as though it might shape shift before his eyes. At last, when he had checked and rechecked until he could no longer deny it, Atobe lowered the page.

They waited for his reaction. For a while, he simply stood where he was, the single sheet of paper dangling loosely from his limp fingers, the rest of the discarded documents scattered on the ground all around. His expression, so fiery and purposeful only moments before, now turned stiff and shadowed. They watched his eyes, watched their intensity disappear, watched as coal black pupils disappeared behind pale lids.

The powerful Hyotei team watched as their captain displayed an emotion they had never seen on him before. Resignation.

Slowly, he turned. Everyone scrambled to clear a path for him straight out the office door. There, they dawdled in the hallway to see what he did next. The bell had rung; the corridors were empty, and they could all expect reprimands when they eventually returned to their classrooms, but nobody even thought to leave.

Nobody except Atobe. Abruptly he looked up, squared his jaw and strode swiftly towards the nearest staircase. "Oi, oi, Atobe, you can't go out now--" Shishido Ryo started to call after him, but stopped short when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Let him go," Oshitari said simply.

Together they looked on as the silver hair they were so accustomed to seeing bouncing steadily and confidently in front of them descended and disappeared from view, short curls pushed uncaringly backwards by passing wind. The last they saw of Atobe's uniform billowed out behind him, his jacket unkempt, collar flapping untidily. His retreating back said one thing that they all heard loud and clear: I don't care what you think anymore.

"Buchou…will he be all right?" Choutarou asked tentatively. "Where is he going?"

Six of them looked, one after another, to Oshitari, who accepted the unsaid plea for leadership without question or complaint. "Aa, he'll be fine," he assured them, staring after his friend and commander intently. "He's dealt with worse, I believe. As for where he's going… I think he's going to try and find her."

And all the regulars, in their own different ways, sighed.

Outside, Atobe had already reached Hyotei's gates and walked through them without a backwards glance. Breaking out onto the dusty streets he took a sharp turn and headed away from school. He was going to look for her now. He was going to comb the city until he found her.

Atobe vaguely thought about calling for his car. It would certainly make more sense, since it meant he would be able to cover more ground faster. However, he brushed the notion aside almost at once; the pent up nervous energy inside him drove him to go on foot. He walked, trotted, then went in a full out run as he rushed along Tokyo's streets, leaving the respectful, quiet neighborhood he was familiar with for the back allies, for gangster populated areas.

He was being reckless. He was diving head first into places where he knew no one would respect him for being a star tennis player, the heir to the Atobe business empire, or any other title he could claim to have.

And he didn't care.

_Come out_, he urged silently. _Come out to see Ore-sama, wherever you are. If you are all right, come out and let Ore-sama find you. _Still he could not banish that image of her lying on a pavement, hurt and scared_. If you can still walk or even stand, come out. If you are hurt, let Ore-sama help you. Ore-sama _will_ help you. He will not even ask any questions, until he has helped you_.

At last, he had to stop in his tracks to catch his breath. The grubby, run down residential compound in which he'd paused was someplace he normally would never have set foot in voluntarily. The roads were none too clean, littered with garbage, especially near the garbage cans overflowing with takeout boxes, empty beer bottles and all refuse of all sorts. The people looked as well groomed as the crumbling houses on either side of the street, wearing faded attire to match the faded walls.

For all he knew and cared, Atobe's appearance was no better. His clothes were soaked, sweat adhering his shirt to his chest and back, his hair lank and damp. Gasping harshly, he continued to scan the area around him, ignoring inquisitive and hostile glances he got, looking, though he feared the thought of finding it, for flashes of red.

He found none. He ran on.

On and on, block after block, Atobe went through every alleyway, ever deserted parking lot or public garden, every place he could think of where she might have gone, where she might have fallen. It was farther than he had ever run for any training. He reached the limit after which he would usually have stopped to take a rest, and went right past it without thinking. He ran until he literally could run no more. He couldn't remember ever doing this before.

It was late afternoon when he made to return, his feet dragging with weariness. Shoulders slumped forwards, he shambled along watching his shoes, lacking energy to even continue turning his head at regular intervals. One foot after another, step after step, he watched his once pristine black leather shoes, scuffed, dusty, and scratched. He felt sticky and filthy all over from the buckets of collected perspiration oozing from his clothes. But he did not go home.

Instead, he went to her house. It was empty, as it always was. Her parents were out doing business in one country or another. The darkened windows reflected the last rays of a setting sun as he approached it and collapsed against the fence surrounding its neat lawn. Breathing heavily, he raised his eyes to stare up at the house, taking in its size--nothing to his residence, of course--and once again realizing with regret how big it must seem to a girl of thirteen living mostly by herself. _She must never have wanted to stay there alone_, he reflected. _She just wanted to go out and be with other people. But she didn't know what was outside_.

A slight breeze picked up, chilling him through his thin, sweat soaked shirt. Atobe at last made a move to straighten his jacket and re-button it. It was then that he found his fingers were shaking, fumbling the delicate clasps. Fastening them turned out to be a laborious process. After a long while he looked up. The streets were still void of people.

_Let Oshitari be right_. He wished his teammate would prove correct, and that she had merely been called away for some family business that for some reason required her to withdraw from Hyotei, and that she would reenter the next day. Atobe wished that he, the diva, the god-like tennis player, were wrong in his intuitive thinking that, no, she would not be back.

He caught his reflection in the window of a nearby car. It was hard to believe that the disheveled face staring back was his; slick hair had turned choppy, strands sticking out in all possible directions, bright eyes had closed to a half-mast due to fatigue, and his mouth sagged at the corners, a result of having clenched his teeth continuously for a whole afternoon. Raising a hand he began combing his hair back into something resembling his normal style, all the while remembering, _she used to laugh at me for doing this_.

He wished she were here to laugh at him.

Twilight. His phone had rung half a dozen times, and to each caller he gave the same answer, "No, later. Ore-sama will come home later." Though, he had no idea why he was still there. If all he feared turned out true, she would not make it back to the house without assistance. If, say, for some other bizarre reason, her family had decided to move house and reunite in Europe, then there was even less of a chance that she would appear at all. He didn't know why he was still here, waiting for her to return.

Therefore he had no clue as to what to expect when he spotted the lone figure materializing in the distance, her white uniform glowing ghost-like in the evening hue.

_She's home_. Atobe closed his eyes briefly, and breathed. The image of her nearing form lingered in his mind and he quickly recognized her solid gait, lethargic and subdued like she had just had tennis practice, but comfortable and unburdened by injury. Which was just as well; it meant he could have his long awaited answers now.

As her face came into clear view he saw surprise, sheepishness, and a frown. Obviously she had not expected to see him there--meaning she didn't know him as well as he thought she should--much less looking like someone who had just run a marathon in office clothes. When he came to think of it, the circumstances astounded him too. Then, she was in front of him, looking up at him in her patent gaze. "Keigo? What happened to you?" Not worshipful, with no sign of reverence or fawning worry. Just a concerned, "Keigo? What happened to you?"

Keigo, why are you so messed up?

Keigo, is there anything I can do for you?

Keigo, I don't want to talk about what's going on with me right now.

"Ore-sama…Ore-sama went…_where have you been_?" Even Atobe was shocked at how rough his voice ended up sounding, as though he had been roaring himself hoarse for the last couple of hours. "You didn't go to school today," he accused.

"Yes, I did, Keigo," she said calmly, studying him with an almost sad expression.

He raised a brow, prompting her to elaborate, but she did nothing more than gaze at him. Glaring at her did nothing to help. Gradually, he found no more reason to stare at her impassive face, and his line of sight moved elsewhere. Strikingly prominent was how neat her outfit was, compared to his. Smooth, clean white dress, matching, even socks and black shoes reflecting dull streetlamp light. Her schoolbag was in place, as was her tennis bag… No, not _her_ tennis bag. Just _a_ tennis bag.

"You didn't go to _Hyotei_," Atobe amended. Her uniform was different; the collar was brown. Her tennis bag was brown.

There was no brown on Hyotei Girls' Tennis Team regulars' items.

"I meant to tell you today," she sighed heavily. "Right after school or even during lunchtime. But I left my cell phone at home. Honest mistake."

Her half-shrug infuriated Atobe just as Choutaro's suggestion from before did. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing casual about uprooting oneself from one school to another without prior notice to anyone. There was nothing casual about leaving one's friends to wonder where one was, their imaginations going out of control with scenes of fists and knives and blood. "Do you have any idea what Ore-sama thought when you didn't answer Ore-sama's calls? Aa?"

Outrageously, his plainly valid question annoyed her. "Keigo, we've been through this before. I thought we established that I can handle myself just fine. Just because I'm not in school for a day and you don't know why doesn't mean--"

"And this!" Atobe made a sweeping gesture at her uniform. Her non-Hyotei uniform. "When did you ever mention _this_ to Ore-sama?"

"I just told you," she murmured, rather shamefaced again, "I was going to let you know today."

Atobe took a step forwards. He towered over her by almost a foot, and she had to strain her neck to keep eye contact. _Good_, he thought. He had to let her know that he wasn't to be treated as a triviality. "So it wouldn't have been possible to do that the month before? The week before? The _day_ before?"

"No, it wouldn't."

He blinked, temporarily thrown off balance. She actually had a reason? There was a brief internal struggle on whether to be glad there was a reason (and thus her purposeful omission of this critical news was premeditated instead of a completely thoughtless act with no consideration for his feelings) or to be upset that there was a reason (thus implying that he legitimately needed to be deceived). In the end, it all boiled down to one question. "Why?"

Why didn't you give any forewarning of something that will change our lives so drastically?

Why didn't you mention being pressured to leave, so that Ore-sama could have made things better, so that you wouldn't have had to go?

Why didn't you trust Ore-sama to know?

"Because you would have found a way to stop me."

In that instant, Atobe stopped inhaling. The next moment, air rushed into his lungs in a harsh gasp and a waterfall of his ferocity from earlier on that day came cascading back as a wrenching sense betrayal drew tight around his chest like iron chains.

"I'm sorry, Keigo. There was…there was something…it doesn't matter now, but for a while I've been thinking…I considered forgetting about it but then my new school accepted me and I wanted more than anything else, to be able to just walk out. I should have told you sooner, but then I could tell you wouldn't have gotten what I meant and would have tried to help. You'd mean well, but anything you could do would just backfire. Not because you're incapable; it's just that--"

Holding up a hand, he made a slashing movement. He didn't want to hear about how powerless he was. He didn't need to be reminded, right after finding out that he was unable to keep track of even one person's life, that he was inattentive enough to not have noticed that she was dealing with problems she hadn't shared with him.

"We're still friends, even if I'm going to a different school," she offered meekly. She had on such an innocent expression, like she believed that 'sorry' would really make things all right again.

"Friends?" Drawing himself to his full height, Atobe raised his chin, looking haughtily down his nose at her. " '_Still_ friends'? Apparently you can't even trust Ore-sama to respect your decision to leave Hyotei, much less support you in whatever it is that has compelled you to leave in the first place. If that is how _friends_ are to you, then your definition of the word is very different from Ore-sama's."

His words rang in the air around them long after he had finished speaking. They would not sit well with her; she loathed guilt, and he was having no reservations about giving her a double dose of it. Atobe searched her face, looking for anger, for defensiveness, for a hint of apology, anything, but her expression was blank.

The blankness perplexed him. Throughout her Freshman year and earlier Sophomore days, she had been a hot-headed little spitfire, but at least then he always knew how she felt, because when she got mad, she raged. The current emptiness of her face was haunting, unreadable, civil but distant. Atobe imagined this was what she would look like when she died.

"You're right," she said in a curiously flat voice. "I can't trust you to respect my decisions, or to help me with anything, because you can't trust me to make my own judgments on what should and should not be done."

With a monotonic air, she turned on her heels and pushed open the gate to her front garden, pulling out her key at the door and entering the house without looking back. She was out of sight and the windows of her home were bright with light before Atobe was done processing her parting statement.

On the sidewalk, where a pale yellow moon was starting to show itself, a splash of silver hovered near the fence, like a fallen star, an exiled spirit, or the last speck of a fairy godparent about to leave.

Later that night when the girl inside the house ran to the window and threw back the curtains, it was gone.


	2. Matsuno Hikara

_Chapter One - Matsuno Hikara_

_

* * *

_

_Persona_: **YUUTA**

"Those pancakes are evil." I crossed my arms and refused to budge.

My sister laughed her soft, tinkling laugh, slipping an arm around my shoulders. "But I bet they still taste good," she whispered into my ear.

With a disgusted growl I pushed her away. Nee-san was theoretically supposed to be a kind of middle person between my brother and me, somebody that listened to both sides fairly and used what she knew to help ease tension. But sometimes, I got the feeling that she was more on Aniki's side than mine.

"Maa, I think I'll go downstairs now…" Her lilting sing-song voice drifted away as she started down the steps. "Here I come, hot, fluffy pancakes with syrup and butter and strawberry jam. Hmm, I wonder if there'll be any chocolate milk to go with them…"

"_Nee-san_," I hissed, scrambling after her.

She smiled mockingly, mischief glittering in her light brown eyes. "Why Yuuta! Do you want some too? I'm sure there's plenty for all of us."

Unable to think of a good comeback, I resorted to stamping my foot. "Nee-san, _stop it_."

All I got was another laugh.

Scowling, I watched her disappear around a corner while I remained standing mid-staircase. Before long, voices sounded out from a dreaded place in another part of the house, sending snippets of 'They look marvelous' and 'I used extra pumpkin chunks' floating tantalizingly my way. I gulped.

My teeth and fists clenched as the air around me suddenly turned traitor, filling with the rich, mouth-watering aroma of wicked goodness. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of my face. _I can't. I can't. I _won't_. I can't_…

"Aren't you coming, Yuuta?"

Nee-san poked her head out from the dining room, making me jump. Baring my teeth at her, I shook my head. "Oh well," she sighed sadly. "If you're sure. I was just going to say that those pancakes are as thick as pound cakes today, with all the fruity bits he added, but if you really don't want any—"

That was it. With a furious glower I hurried down the last few steps and grudgingly followed her into the kitchen. It was an ongoing game of tug-of-war between us, one that had started ever since I began coming home for weekends. Did I go, or did I not go down to breakfast? That was the question. Guess who dictated the answer every time?

No, don't answer that.

The smell of frying batter grew all the more overpowering as I got nearer to its source. My knees were weak by the time I actually stepped into our family's pristine kitchen. Any resistance I though of putting up was drowned in thoughts of divine, heavenly—

"Pancakes, Yuuta?"

I awoke from something akin to a drug-induced haze with a sudden jerk. It was like a gust of wind had blown right through my head, scattering the intoxicating fumes of fresh pumpkin pancakes and clearing my mind. "Good morning, Aniki."

* * *

The girl wasn't used to using public tennis courts. Chin-length black hair swished around her face distastefully as she surveyed the surroundings of what was to be her new training ground. It wasn't exactly a classy place. The outlines of a tennis court were scuffed and chipped, the net grey and frayed. Some dusty benches sat near the sidelines, backless and uninviting.

A shock of white in her bangs swung forwards as she bent to retrieve her racket from a sports bag at her feet anyway. _I've gotten too soft_.

As the sun slowly peeked over the two meter high bushes fencing in the area, she tossed up a ball, raised her racket high, and began to rally against a nearby wall.

* * *

_Persona_: **YUUTA**

My brother smiled radiantly at me, his blue eyes dancing. "Good morning, Yuuta. I'm so glad you decided to eat with us today."

"Uh…" I stared self-consciously at a point on the gleaming white floor-tiles. When he turned his back to adjust the fire, I shot Nee-san a dirty look. She winked, and breezed over to the dining table. As she sat down, her hand knocked into the chair beside her own in a not-so-subtle gesture.

Unknowingly, Aniki repeated her instructions. "Please sit down, Yuuta. These will be ready soon." He waved a hand at the frying pan sitting on the stove, and its seductively scented contents.

I hesitated, debating whether it was worth it to do what my siblings said. I wanted those pancakes. But if I took them...

"This batch is going to be _very_ tasty," my brother continued in a disproportionally cheery voice. "I remember you said that the last ones I made weren't filling enough, so I made these using thicker batter and more pumpkin pieces. Hopefully you'll find that they'll last you through your morning tennis practice—I'm pretty sure they'll last me through mine!"

And there the alarm bells started ringing. My eyes flew to the packed tennis bag sitting in a corner of the room, then to the workout clothes he was wearing. Several notions came rushing back to me.

"Actually, I just came in for some water," I announced loudly, following up my point by heading over to the counter and pouring out a glass of it.

Aniki stopped in the middle of dishing up the first few golden brown pancakes. "But…Yuuta, don't you want any?"

"No, I'm not hungry."

His face took on an expression of wounded confusion. "Not hungry?" he repeated like the concept escaped him.

Some tensai.

"Nope, not hungry at all." Mustering up every scrap of self-control and discipline I possessed, I downed my glass, rinsed it and set it back down resolutely. "Excuse me, I've got to go." I was out of the room before either Aniki or Nee-san could move an inch.

Down the hallway I strode, quick enough to feel the passing air pushing back my clothes. Snatching up my sports bag in a single grab-and-run motion, I jammed my feet into shoes just as footsteps started to ring out behind me.

By the time Aniki was close enough to talk, shoes were on, my bag was shouldered and I had one hand on the doorknob. "Where are you going?" he asked. Again, indecision tweaked my insides. He sounded so…_imploring_.

"Out."

With that, I closed the door behind me.

* * *

_Maybe street courts aren't too bad_. The girl was by now well into the rhythm of her rally; the bouncing ball she commandeered, the swinging racket and her body moved as though following the beat of some private song.

Breathing heavy but regular, heat gathering in her torso, she imagined she was having as much fun as she had ever had in any fancier place.

If only the place wasn't quite so _quiet_.

* * *

_Persona_: **YUUTA**

Trotting briskly down the garden path, I slowed down only after vaulting the low iron gates that opened to my home and reaching the sidewalk beyond. I took in a few gasps of pancake-free air, and groaned as my stomach growled like an angry dog. _At least _he_ didn't hear that_.

I guess by now you should be good and confused. Well, it wouldn't be too hard to explain what I'd just done, and why. But then that wouldn't be worth knowing if you didn't know what Aniki had just done (or tried to do, anyway), and why. So all in all, I'll have to start from the very beginning. Or somewhere near there.

About a year ago, I transferred from Seigaku, where Aniki studies, to St. Rudolph, the school I go to now. Actually, I transferred to St. Rudolph _because_ he went to Seigaku. I resented him that much back then. Even my sister couldn't do anything. Maybe if she'd been at home more, she would've talked me out of it, but she'd just started college and could hardly keep up with her own life.

At first, I didn't come back home at all, since St. Rudolph was a boarding school and let us stay in our dorms year round, except for the summer holidays. Aniki and I didn't say a single word to each other for months at a time, and I worked hard to keep it that way. Nee-san called once in a while, but somehow there was never much to say to her either. I guess I was just too tired from all the extra tennis practice.

Then this year, things changed. Around eight weeks ago, my school played against Aniki's in a tennis tournament. His team, being the advantageous selection of tennis prodigies like him, won. As everyone else expected. And I was personally defeated by their newest whiz kid, Echizen Ryoma. My team wasn't happy about it, and neither was I.

But for some reason, after the match, nothing seemed to be as it was before. People weren't the same anymore. Or maybe everyone was the same, just that the way I saw them was different. I was different. Whatever happened that day, life ended up…changed. Perhaps for the better. At any rate, I didn't hate my brother so much. And I started coming home for weekends.

That was when Aniki got it into his head to get up at sunrise to cook breakfast for me.

For the first couple of times, I accepted this arrangement, no questions asked. My school was great, but its cafeteria didn't serve pumpkin pancakes. And Aniki's tasted really good. After a while, though, something not so good came to my attention. Having eaten with me, Aniki would announce that he was going to the street courts, or downtown, wherever I said I wanted to go next. And the day went downhill from there. Which was bad.

The obvious solution was to stop going places with him. But it wasn't like I could just say no; he _did_ cook my favorite food and all. Therefore, there was only one thing to do—stop eating with him.

Which should give you a pretty good idea of why I did what I did this morning.

It should also tell you why I'm playing eternal tug-of-war with my sister—as I said, she gives me the impression of not being completely unbiased when it came to clashes between my brother and me. It was like she _wanted_ Aniki to be able to shadow me, all day, every Saturday and Sunday, and gave him all the information she had to help him do it.

_She even told him about this bakery_, I remembered, still feeling the sting of having my favorite pastries place invaded and used as a way to 'bump into' me, as I walked into said store. It wasn't strictly along the way, and if she hadn't said anything, Aniki would never have found the place, much less known that I liked to go there.

She kept saying that he found out through his own means, though. Made up a story about data collecting, or something like that.

After my brief detour, I was soon on my way to morning tennis practice, munching bread. Now, here's the thing. The only reason why Aniki always tries to catch me at mealtimes—mostly breakfast—if he plans to tag along that day was because he's never caught me anywhere else, except perhaps at the bakery. But that had happened only once. The point is, he's never managed to find me at the street courts. Or, to be more specific, _his_ street courts.

You see, there are two sets of public tennis courts in our area. The bigger one, most people know about. It's where you go if you want to run into Seigaku, Fudomine, sometimes St. Rudolph and occasionally, Hyotei.

The smaller one, I prefer more. Built well away from the main road, it doesn't attract as much attention and is the kind of place only someone actively searching for somewhere to train and escape from the prying eyes of his clingy older brother would find, you know? Which is probably why I'd never seen anyone else going there.

Dawn hadn't quite finished breaking when I pushed through the narrow entrance to this single court that was my personal Secret Garden. Thick bushes, six feet high, hid it from view and defied their limits by closing up around the gap through which the court could be accessed. A practice wall stood to one side, shielding it further.

This morning, even before pushing back leaves, I noticed something strange. Instead of the blissful silence I was used to greeting me, muffled _poc poc_ noises of a bouncing tennis ball filtered through the foliage, soft yet echoing in the morning quiet. Even more unusual, it didn't sound like just one ball, judging by the frequency of the rhythmic _poc_-ing.

It looked like I would be having some company, and I was more than a little annoyed that even my last chance for a little alone time was no longer an option. With a damper on my mood, I walked stiffly into the area.

It was already occupied, as I'd suspected. But only by one person. _That's weird_. The fast-paced bouncing resounded clearly in my ears; too quickly, as I said, for a single ball.

I made my slow approach towards the practice wall, where a small, slender figure was already playing. Its back was to me, but the lithe frame I observed was indisputably feminine. Her short hair was mostly dark, but when she turned her head a stripe of white was revealed in her bangs. She was moving rather unnaturally to my eye; her swings were much too wide and too much power was going into her backswing after each hit. Otherwise, I thought her unremarkable.

That is, until I came to stand beside her.

Then I found out why I was hearing more balls than I should, and why the girl's motions were so unorthodox. She was playing against the wall as I knew, but instead of using one ball like I had assumed, two at once were under her control.

I stared. Oh, it wasn't impossible. Obviously. I'd even seen this kind of duo-ball rally before, when some Fudomine students used it as a warm-up. But she was doing it so effortlessly, her arm whipping snake-like back and forth. And standing so _close_ to the wall. And… Well, truthfully, she was a…well, girl.

Not to be outdone (by a girl) I got out my racket and tennis balls, beginning a vigorous rally of my own. As of yet, I'd only ever used one ball at any one time, but I was feeling rebellious that day, because as you know, you tend to get a little reckless when nothing seems to go right.

So I added a second. And immediately realized what a bad idea it was. Hitting forehand, then backhand, then forehand again… My own technique, Rising, might have matched the speed needed, but not the power control, or any other aspect of skill. To make it even harder, there were suddenly so many balls. The logic should go: twice the number of balls, twice the concentration, right?

Wrong. At least it felt wrong. Which is kind of the same, practically speaking. Try it one of these days. You might find (unless of course you're a much better tennis player than I am) that coordinating your forehand and backhand strokes with exactly the correct timing and strength isn't as easy as you might think.

Anyway, I really had to struggle there. My backhand had always been a little weaker than my forehand, as is true with most players, and resultantly the balls came within range a little sooner or later than was convenient, limp sometimes and bullet-like in other times. Very destabilizing.

I suppose you know what happened next. Tell you the truth, it was probably downright impossible for me _not_ to fault soon or later with the state I was in, but when it actually happened, I still had to wince as the ball deflected to one side—the girl's side.

Embarrassing, isn't it? I actually fixed my expression lest I blush or display any equally humiliating signs of emotion to prepare for when she laughed. I imagined a mocking, condescending laugh.

It didn't come. Instead, I was thrown off guard by two things: her silence—and a returning ball.

That's right—somewhere between managing her own complicated strokes, the girl had somehow squeezed out an extra split second to correct the path of my stray hit. I was so surprised; I almost missed the ball again.

Thinking back, it really should have been rather mortifying. But at that moment there was no time to think, and it was all my reflexes could do to prepare for the next shot a half-instant before it actually connected. Having saved that one, though, I found—much too late—that I'd neglected my second ball, which was still clumsily scooped up, however launched into semi-crooked flight at best.

There was no way to tell when she returned it this time; I only knew that the mishit ball came back at me, its path straight as an arrow. Cheeks burning and determined not to allow any more stupid mess-ups, I poured all my attention into the rally. Just as well; because as soon as I'd got things more or less back under control, a third ball came sailing my way.

It was very hard not to grin.

* * *

Feeling excited and yet strangely peaceful, she played the queer new game involving a total of four tennis balls, two people, and silence, which stretched between this boy and herself like a feather-light string coiled loosely around their respective fingers.

The girl couldn't be certain, but she thought she'd heard of this phenomenon from a certain tennis doubles pair, once upon a time. They'd given it a name. What had they call it, the assurance she held within that told her, no matter how many times she swatted a ball away, it would always get back on track and come to her, ready for the next hit? That no matter how many mistakes she made, someone would be there to pick up the pieces? They'd call it…

They'd called it…

* * *

_Persona_: **YUUTA**

I don't know what got into me. One minute, we were doing this really weird rally (with _four_ balls; that's not something you see every day) and I was starting to enjoy myself. The next, I'd blurted out, "You know, I'm not exactly sure what's going on, but I don't think this is tennis. It looks a lot more like squash, doesn't it?"

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted saying them. What was wrong with me? I could maybe have gotten away with saying that kind of casual, trivial thing to a doubles partner (or at least I suspected so; I'd never actually _had_ a doubles partner). But a complete stranger? Not so much. It appeared Aniki didn't have to be around for me to make a complete idiot of myself.

"It does."

My eyes widened.

"I thought the same thing, too," a melodious voice answered.

In my shock, the concentration I'd worked so hard to keep up broke. One ball hit my racket's rim, glanced off and landed subdued at my feet. The other hit me in the stomach. It dropped to the ground and rolled away pathetically.

"Good thinking," the same feminine voice said. There were two dull pings as her racket strings stopped the other balls. "I was also just about to suggest we move over to the court over there and play some real tennis."

I opened my mouth, found it better not to say anything, and helplessly closed it again. Judging by the lack of mockery in her tone, the girl genuinely believed I'd taken voluntary action in bringing our rally to an end. Sheepishly, I gave her a fleeting sideways glance.

A spasm of electricity shot through me, air turned to ice in my lungs and I had to suppress the violent impulse to stumble backwards. _What the_—

The instant passed, and all the muscles that had seized up relaxed again. More or less. But still I couldn't take my attention off the metallic gray spheres that were her eyes. Glittering diamond-like, unyielding with a raptor-worthy chill, they left me tense and wary. Her gaze was Aniki's scariest in a different shade. The kind that made you want to back away slowly, and hope that when you ran, you wouldn't be pursued.

"Uh—oh—tennis—yeah—right…" I babbled, my mind at a disgraceful blank.

For a horrible second, I feared that my unseemly speech alone would lead to dire consequences. Yet I made no move to leave or escape, mesmerized by that icy glare, which in its depths mirrored something…

She smiled.

The world thawed, and I couldn't remember what had been making me so uptight as cold iron softened into comforting gray wool.

I found myself smiling back. "Tennis would be really great. One set match?"

The girl nodded. "Sounds good." Twirling her racket, she headed off towards the court.

Planning to follow straight away, I paused only to pick up the tennis balls I'd fumbled. Frowning down at the two battered yellow things in my hands with the exact same brand and number emblazoned on them, and then at the two similarly identical balls she held, I turned towards her just as she suddenly stopped and turned to me, and we started in unison, "Can you tell which—"

Then both of us laughed, and the sound flew from my throat as easily as though I'd just shared a private joke with a very old friend. She, too, seemed to see the subtle humor, though if we'd had to explain to a third person what was so funny, I don't think either of us could have done it. I stuck out my hand, grinning. "Fuji Yuuta. Pleased to meet you."

My grin was returned with another little smile, a slight upturning of her lips that made me think she wanted to break into laughter once more, but wasn't quite going to. It was an old-friends smile. "Matsuno Hikara," she obliged in her mild voice. "Pleased to meet you."


End file.
